‘I guess we both need to apologise,’ said Jackie. It had been an awkward first few minutes, both looking slightly embarrassed and exchanging platitudes before she raised the subject.Paul gave her a glance, one that questioned why he needed to apologise for her walking out on him.She smiled sweetly at him and carried on. ‘Me for my mood swings ... and you for being a bumptious, know-it-all prat.’The Victoria had its usual collection of shirkers and misfits lounging about, and Garside was busy preening its claws on a stool by the bar. They were sitting side by side at a corner table, away from the clickety-clack of the domino-playing foursome, with Paul’s pile of printouts scattered across the table top.Jackie brushed her hand across them, not yet focused on his problems. Her mind was in turmoil, but she needed to explain. She bent close. ‘Brains ... okay, my shrink ... changed my contraceptive pill, and recommended a high potassium diet ... avocadoes and bananas. Something to do with ... well I’m not really sure ... but I feel a lot more balanced.’ She giggled. ‘I even listen to Frank Sinatra, now.’Paul pretended to be horrified. ‘Wrinkly-music ... bananas ...?’ Tears of laughter. ‘No wonder you need a shrink. You’re off your bloody rocker.’She punched his arm. ‘Not me, it’s the rest of the bastards who are the crazies.’‘Okay, I’m sorry for being a stupid prat ... and I’m all ears. What about Carol?’Jackie fumbled into her pocket and pulled out the note and showed it.He frowned. ‘Carol was going home. Serena needed her ... you don’t think...’Oh fuck. I’ve missed the obvious.She leapt up. ‘Come on, we’ve got to get in her flat.’The door latch panel splintered on the third kick. Paul shouldered the door open and hurried inside, Jackie following at his heels.Carol was lying on the floor in the bathroom, a phial of sleeping pills by her side.Please.Jackie bent down, felt for a pulse; looked up. ‘She’s unconscious but still breathing. Ambulance, quick.’The next few hours at Cheltenham hospital was scary; emergency treatment; stomach pump, oxygen and a saline drip to stabilise Carol – with Jackie at her bedside, watching Carol’s heart monitor bleeping steadily.The doctor was optimistic. ‘It takes a lot of these pills to actually kill someone ... especially a healthy teenager. I think she dozed off before she could consume a deadly dose.’Thank God.Jackie still felt guilty. If she hadn’t been exhausted last night, if she hadn’t been preoccupied with denouncing Hillock, if only...His voice interrupted her thoughts. Paul had returned. ‘How is she?’She looked up: he was offering her a cup of coffee. She took it, pointed to the heart monitor. ‘Stable, but still in a coma.’‘I called Harmony Estate maintenance. It didn’t come as a surprise; they’re used to fixing busted doors.’Jackie sipped the coffee. ‘Paul, if it wasn’t for you, she could have died. I owe you.’He looked a bit sheepish. ‘Well I was hoping...’She looked at her watch. ‘Still want to check out the Seagulls?’He nodded. ‘But if it’s a bad time...?’She interrupted; stood up. ‘The doctor’s got my number. We can take a look at Carol’s flat while we’re at it and make sure it’s secure.’As long as some tea leaf hasn’t trashed the place.

By the time Jackie got back safely to her apartment it was late. She felt exhausted; mentally and physically drained. The Face had got under her skin like a crawling worm; a tormenting itch that wouldn’t go away. She opened the door; lights were off, no cooking smells, no TV blaring...‘Carol?’No answer. The guest bedroom was empty; the bed had been made, and the room made tidy. But no Carol - and none of her clothes in the wardrobe.She found the note on the lounge table.Serena needs me. I’ve gone back home. Thanks for looking after me.Love Carol xxxJackie gave a long sigh, sank into the sofa, and closed her eyes. The court might not see it that way. Carol was at risk and she needed to sort it......Her phone was ringing; she glanced at her watch. It was morning and daylight was streaming in.Shit. Carol...?It was Helga. ‘Jackie?’‘Yes.’‘One more possible.’ Helga was terse, to the point. Her voice echoed concern. ‘It’s your young girl. Carol.’Oh no!Jackie was furious. ‘What a fucking cock-up. It’s been three days.’Helga sounded apologetic. ‘CID overwhelmed us with Operation Venus samples - and we’ve got a relief lab technician. As you know, Carol’s initial test was inconclusive, and so was this one ... it went back in the fridge.’Jackie felt sick. ‘What’s “inconclusive”, mean?’‘Jackie, this is between us ... for the moment. Carol’s blood sample has a unique defence mechanism against this strain of AIDS. Infected cells get inactivated. Simply put, Carol is probably a carrier.’Just like Serena.‘Are you saying she can infect others but not herself?’‘Possibly ... I don’t know ... but we need to carry out a lot more tests.’Poor kid.Helga was saying something else. ‘... living at your address, under your care. We need Carol to provide more samples, PDQ.’Sod it. I’ve blown it again. ‘Let me talk with Carol.’‘Jackie ... if the next sample confirms my initial findings, I have a duty to inform the coroner ... and the police.’And then bloody Tania Simpson will get to know about it. And then...Carol wasn’t answering her phone. She wasn’t at her flat. Jackie leaned on the doorbell, peered through the letter-box - no sign of anyone inside - and knocked on the doors on either side, only surprised looks and head-shakes from her neighbours who hadn’t seen her for days - hadn’t heard anything, either.Jackie was in a quandary. It was her duty to inform the court – and CID - that Carol had absconded. That’s if she had - and not just gone shopping. The legal implications were serious; Carol would be caught and incarcerated until her trial – and it wouldn’t aid her defence, however lenient the judge.She ticked through her options. Really there was only one person who could help. One who she could trust to carry out a covert investigation.Paul answered on the third ring. He sounded surprised until she told him what she wanted him to do. ‘You don’t even know she’s gone missing yet.’She crossed her fingers. ‘Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.’ She could hear him sighing.‘Where are you?’‘Harmony Estate.’He whistled and changed his tune. ‘Tell you what, I’ll meet you there in the Vic ... say half an hour?’‘No, Paul, this is bloody urgent. Get your ass down here now.’‘Err ... okay, Sarge. Right away.’ ***It sounded serious, but Paul now had the perfect excuse to get it back on with Jackie. And she could help him track down the Seagulls. It was less threatening to have a woman with him – plus added protection, if it came to it. He got Reilly to print off some stills of them and Sam’s attacker, plus the identikit photo. He also pocketed a copy of the CD. Excuse for getting back to her apartment and then......Romance.

Paul took a swig of his pint. ‘How the hell was I to know it was a bloody brothel?’He and Mifty were sitting in the Albion both recovering from Hillock’s rant. The raid on Pimlico House had been a total cock-up; a waste of valuable police time and resources. As a punishment – it seemed like that – Hillock made them interview the eight women, the two men they caught with their pants down, and the studio tenant who - it was established later - was a reputable supply teacher.Mifty sipped his orange juice. ‘It wouldn’t happen in Karachi.’‘What, a brothel?’‘No, a police raid.’‘Why not?’‘Paul, you are so green. Sometimes I wonder...’ Mifty pointed at the wall clock. ‘Time’s marching on.’‘You mean the cops are corrupt ... or they don’t care?’‘Neither. Dance clubs ... and that’s a cover name for a few ... are licensed.’ Mifty stood up. ‘Last round.’Paul didn’t press the point. ‘I’ll have a whisky chaser with my pint.’Mifty was willing to expand on the raid when he returned with the drinks. ‘The girls we interviewed. None of them appealed to me.’Paul gave him a stare. ‘You’re not suggesting...?’Mifty shook his head. ‘Dancers should be beautiful women ... elegant dresses ... and alluring.’‘Dancers?’Mifty grinned through stained teeth. ‘Western music, girls in bikinis. It’s how I deal with the cultural difference.’Paul sat back. He hadn’t thought of it like that. To Mifty, a brothel in Bridleton must seem like alien territory. Something was nagging at the back of his mind. A fleeting glimpse – but it vanished...The conversation ground to a halt. Mifty was itching to leave the Albion - den of iniquity, he called it – and an early night appealed.Breakfast with mother and Daisy had its moments. Daisy became an enthusiastic cheer-leader whilst his mother pulled his life apart, mostly about his on-off relationship with Jackie. Then when she had exhausted that subject, it was his dreadful eating habits, which she blamed on Jackie, then it was his dress sense that she blamed on Jackie...He stopped munching his wholemeal toast with peanut butter spread. The nagging thought had returned, but it slid away again. He topped up his coffee mug with cream and two spoonfuls of sugar, picked it up, said his farewells, and left the disapproving looks behind.Upstairs he put on his headphones and relaxed to Iron Maiden while he thought through his next assignment. Hillock hadn’t been too enthusiastic, but conceded it was worth pursuing the tenancy history of the basement studio. If Boyson had lived there, there could be a forwarding address. The schoolteacher, a Mr. Morris, had rented from the Halifax – there hadn’t been any outstanding bills or correspondence since he took over the tenancy.The mid-morning visit to Sam’s place drew a blank. The Trannie didn’t recognise the picture. Just repeated word for word what she had said before. ‘It was a dark and stormy night...’The visit to the Halifax also drew a blank. It was as if Boyson had vanished overnight - or it was all very carefully planned. What did Boyson really look like? The nagging thought came back. What had Ray said? Dressed well. What had Mifty said? Eloquent dresses. Dress sense, his mother had said. The thought crystallised; how had he overlooked the obvious? The lead to Boyson was still hanging by a thread.The Seagulls.

His frame filled the doorway, barring her exit. Jackie stepped back a couple of paces and weighed up the situation. The undertaker wouldn’t – couldn’t – cause trouble in the pub. At least, she hoped that was the case. His face was noticeable by the absence of any emotion; it was as though his eyes could see death approaching, and welcomed the spectre.The Face spoke. ‘Who are you?’Not the best ever chat-up line.Jackie locked eyes and slowly pulled out her warrant card. He didn’t move a muscle. She held it up so he could see. ‘DS Steel, Bridleton CID.’‘I see. And what did you want from Clipper?’‘Who’s Clipper?’A slight twitch of an eyelid. He opened his coat so she could see the stun gun. ‘Do I have to repeat myself?’‘Come anywhere near me and I’ll scream the place down.’Another slight twitch. ‘You won’t have time.’‘Try me.’‘A million volts could paralyse you.’‘And my boot in your bollocks could do the same.’Mexican stand-off?The Face just stood there. There was no clue to what he was thinking. ‘Maybe we can trade?’Jackie’s heart slowed. What a surprise, the Face could be manipulated. ‘Depends.’‘On what?’‘What’s in it for me?’‘You don’t see me again.’The words - so matter of fact - chilled her to the bone, and she was at a disadvantage here on his turf. But she needed to find out why he was threatening her - the Creek brothers’ connection, the involvement of Hillock...Colluding with a criminal went against everything she stood for, but she put up a hand and began to step backwards further into the room. ‘Don’t move.’She put a chair in the middle of the room, and then moved behind a table - a barrier between her and the stun-gun. She gestured towards the chair. It was enough.He glided into the room, closing the door behind him. He put a black-booted foot on the chair’s seat and inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘You have balls, DS Steel. And you’re correct. I don’t want to make a scene here.’How did he know...?She kept quiet.He kept his stare constant. A slight twitch of the facial muscles indicated he was thinking. Then the words she’d been dreading. ‘Clipper will talk.’So he was looking for corroboration to see if her story matched. As much as she detested Clipper, she wasn’t about to put him into an early grave. She pulled out the recorder from her top. It was still warm, she turned it on, rewound it to play, and let him listen.By the end, he had come to a decision. ‘I don’t think the Creeks would be bothered too much. Hillock is small fry; an egomaniac, and a liability ... and Hemming ... let’s just say, he’s got other priorities.’Jackie was stunned by the arrogant pronouncement and the implications behind the extent of the criminal infiltration. ‘You do realise we’ll come after the Creek brothers ... and you.’His cheek twitched and his lips almost – but not quite – smiled. ‘The Creeks are big enough to take care of themselves. As for me, I hope I don’t have that pleasure, DS Steel.’Jackie stood open-mouthed. So it had been just a game; a bloody charade, a show of power. And a clear message to lay-off or else...She picked up her recorder, stalked up to the door, opened it, and stepped out. As she slammed the door behind her she heard a mocking laugh.I’ll get you, you bastard...

Paul took two steps away while reaching for his warrant card. ‘Is this your garage, sir?’The man advanced. ‘Too fucking right.’Ray pedalled backwards, shaking his head and waving his hands in a definite “no it’s not him gesture”, while Paul extracted his card. He held it up. ‘Police.’The man seemed more interested in checking the padlock. He grunted. ‘I asked you a fucking question. What you doing?’Paul started to say, ‘I have reason to believe...’ but stopped, because being an officious prat just wasn’t going to work. Instead, he took a risk of sounding confrontational. He pointed at Ray. ‘We need to take a look inside.’The man glared, raised his cosh, glanced at Ray who had backed off, and then lowered it again. The message seemed to have registered. ‘Police?’Paul nodded, but kept his distance. ‘If you don’t mind, Mister...?’‘You got a warrant?’‘We don’t need one.’‘Says who?’Paul sighed. He turned to Ray and winked. ‘Use my radio and call in a patrol to arrest a Mister Boyson.’The man did a double-take as if taking in two pieces of information was taxing his brain cell to the limit. ‘Hang on ... my name’s not Boyson.’Paul held up a restraining hand. ‘What?’‘Name’s Grant. Harold Grant ... and there’s only junk in the lock-up.’‘Show me, Mr. Grant.’A pleading look came over Grant’s face. ‘Look, the booze, CDs and fags are for my own consumption...’Paul smiled. ‘I’m sure they are, sir.’ He just stood there and pointed to the garage door.Grant cursed, took out a padlock key from a bib pocket on his overalls and opened up Aladdin’s cave.It took a large white transit to load up the confiscated goods - not a printing press in sight – spoiling every alcoholic, cancer-ridden, sexual deviant’s Christmas. Harold Grant was less than pleased; he was going to sort out the grass, big-time. While he was being processed by Albert followed by a lengthy BECS interview; identity verification, fingerprinted, and DNA sample obtained, Paul parted company with Ray with a promise of a few celebratory beers, and trudged round to Surelet.Mr. Justin was astonished. Or so he said. Yes this garage was one of theirs and they wouldn’t dream of letting to anyone breaking the law, blah, blah...Paul waved his hand to interrupt the verbal diarrhoea. ‘Who rented the lock-up before Grant?’‘Let me check. We’ve had a couple of break-ins, recently.’That would explain Grant’s volatile action. ‘Tenants not happy?’Mr. Justin paused whilst sifting through the bottom draw of a filing cabinet. ‘It’s been a nightmare this year. It’s bad enough when a tenant loses a key, or gets a burst pipe late at night, but when scoundrels want to be Santa ... we get the blame.’Paul let him grumble on about the injustice of life, didn’t want to encourage another burst of rhetoric. He looked around. There were four metal desks in the office. Two were empty; one was occupied by a young female who was engrossed in a telephone conversation. Pictures of houses and apartments adorned the wall near the entrance.Mr. Justin pulled out a file. ‘Here we are.’ He turned over a few pages. ‘Harold Grant took over from a Daniel Boyson ... is this the person you’re looking for?’Strike.‘Any address for Boyson on file?’Mr. Justin flicked over a page. ‘Yes. It’s not one of ours, a basement studio ... bed-sit you’d call it ...number 2 Pimlico House, near the Railway Station. There are two ground floor apartments and another two on the first floor. More desirable than Harmony Estate, but it’s still at the bottom end of the market.’‘Do you know who the letting agent is?’‘Nothing on file, sorry ... it could have been the Halifax ... or maybe Andrews...’‘Okay, thanks for your help.’ Paul shot out of the door before Mr. Justin could complain about the lack of police patrols. He decided to take a look at Pimlico House before returning to the nick and filing his report. Not that it did any good. There were five dustbins on the pavement outside Pimlico House. All were over-flowing, and several boxes of empty booze cans and newspapers were stacked against them. Stone steps led down to the basement front door with a number 2 on it. The steps had been brushed and salted. From pavement level, a snow covered Buddleia bush prevented any view into the window below, so he took a couple of steps down to peer in.The front room – more like a cosy lounge area – was empty, but as he watched a middle-aged woman with curly hair came into view. She was carrying a pile of men’s clothes; jeans and shirts. He ducked back out of sight and retraced his steps, wondering about the woman. Bed-sits were notoriously small; she could have been doing his laundry. But clearly, the room was occupied.No way was he going to scare off Boyson - if it was Boyson’s place - by talking to the woman. He returned to the nick. Hillock was back, and not in a good mood. Paul was hauled into his office and left standing there while Hillock wrote a note.Hillock didn’t look up. Said it very slowly. ‘Where - have – you - been?’‘Chasing up a lead.’‘And wasting everyone’s time while you go around nicking a petty criminal for smuggling booze.’Paul stared at the top of Hillock’s head. A bald patch was beginning to show. ‘Not quite, Mr. Hillock. I’ve located Boyson’s address.’Hillock glanced up. A glint came into his eyes. ‘Have you, now? I haven’t seen your report.’‘I’m going to write it up.’‘Tell me, instead.’ He banged his fist on the desk. A pencil jumped. ‘This is a need to know, and I need to fucking know, right now.’Paul resisted the temptation to punch-out his lights but he drummed the desk with his finger, making a point. ‘Harold Grant’s lock-up was previously rented to Boyson. I visited the letting agent, who gave me the address...sir.’Hillock digested the information, noted down the address that Paul gave him. ‘And I suppose you went round and gave the game away.’A shake of the head. ‘I walked past. Snow had been cleared, rubbish was stacked outside. I assumed someone was occupying the basement studio. I came back...sir.’Hillock ignored the covert insolence; instead, wrote something in his pocketbook. ‘You’re on surveillance. Take DC Iftigar with you.’ He pointed a sharpened pencil at Paul. ‘When Boyson or whoever shows his face ... do not ... I repeat ... do not apprehend him. Get straight back to me instead.’Mifty smelt of curry; clothes, hair and breath. Punjabi pungent would be the appropriate words. In the close confines of the beaten-up Vauxhall, Paul was glad the heater wasn’t working.Mifty started to remonstrate. ‘Why is it that I acquire the unspeakable assignments?’Paul was used to the phony, colonial English. ‘Must be your face,’ he said, deadpan. ‘Blends in.’Mifty stared at him. ‘You taking the piss?’Paul laughed. ‘That’s better. Now I can understand what you’re saying.’Mifty wriggled into a more comfortable position, leant back and shut his eyes. ‘Call me when it gets exciting.’It didn’t take long. A succession of men filtered in and out of Pimlico House; a couple walked down the steps to the basement studio. On both occasions Paul was about to notify Hillock when the men came back up the steps, shaking their heads.When a third man went down the steps, and didn’t return, Paul called Hillock. Ten minutes later a team of officers, led by the man himself, burst in.

They found Dixon Winterbotham in the chapel of rest. Certified cause of death, Pneumonia - cremation service the following Wednesday at 10am.‘What now?’Orson consulted his watch. ‘Plan B. Go and pay your respects while I step outside and make a couple of calls.’Jackie’s tour of the chapel consisted of touching the bouquets of flowers to see if they were real. As far as she was concerned, Dixon had only himself to blame. And he had left a legacy of possibly infecting others before he was diagnosed. She resolved to contact Helga before catching the train back to Bridleton; chase up on Carol’s result and see if any new victims had been admitted...‘Can I help you?’Jackie jumped. A Man of God had materialised from behind the coffin. She pointed to the coffin. ‘I was hoping to have a word ... but...’The priest took hold of her arm. ‘Family?’‘Not exactly. Councillor Winterbotham is ... was helping me with my enquiries.’The priest eyes lit up. ‘And who are you?’Jackie Steel ... that is ... was, Detective Sergeant.’He seemed confused. ‘Was?’‘I’m taking a break.’‘Oh.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘That’s a pity.’It was her turn to look puzzled. ‘Why’s that?’‘Because Dixon left something for you. He made me swear to hand it to you in person. I was going to go down the police station, but...’Jackie felt a touch of apprehension, or was it excitement. ‘Well I’m here now.’The priest didn’t seem convinced. ‘Can you prove who you are? Your warrant card, perhaps?’Maybe he’d been watching too many films; who did he think she was; a spy? Contract killer? Mistress...? She pulled at his arm. ‘Look, my senior officer is outside. He’ll verify who I am.’Worse than getting blood out of a stone, but Orson had the necessary credentials – plus a five pound note he slipped into the contribution box. The priest excused himself and while Jackie waited with growing impatience she glanced at Dixon.Did he wink at me?The brown A4 envelope contained a hand-written confession of Dixon’s involvement in providing a false alibi for Marty, signed and dated – and witnessed by Father Henry. The priest nodded; it was him. More, it implicated DCI Hillock in the cover-up. Jackie was elated, the first piece of evidence.She handed it to Orson. ‘Over to you, guv.’He gave a sigh. ‘It’s strong ... but not enough. Without Dixon, it’s this document against their word. It could be brushed off as a dying man being vindictive.’Jackie could see the point. Winter-bollocks had been an active campaigner - and not always pro-police if it suited his political ambitions. ‘Then we’re back to square one?’‘Not quite.’ He stepped outside the chapel and looked around the hall. ‘There’s an empty bench in the far corner.’ He motioned to Jackie to follow him, and strode off.When they were seated away from prying eyes and the twitching ears of Father Henry, Orson leaned close and spoke quietly. ‘I called in a favour. There’s a DCI in Bristol with his ear to the ground: Ex-Anti-corruption unit in the Met before being posted here. Let’s just say I helped him out one or two times.’Jackie expressed surprise. ‘Guv?’He looked around again, made sure no one was loitering. ‘He gave me a name. Allegedly this snout makes a living from coppers who don’t mind cutting corners to get a conviction. He’ll have the gen if there’s any funny business going on with Hillock or Hemming ... but he costs.’‘I don’t see...’Orson was shaking his head. ‘I’m too conspicuous ... but you’re off the radar. Get some hard evidence and I’ll take it to Forsyth.’‘I’m not sure...’ she hesitated. Part of her wanted to leap in and grab the opportunity, but could she pull it off? ‘... I can afford...’Orson was pulling out his wallet. ‘Here’s forty quid.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s what I saved not having any chocolate for a couple of weeks.’Jackie was flabbergasted. She hadn’t really known Angers at all. Far from being an impatient Dickhead, there were hidden depths that she had never seen before.She put the money into her jacket pocket, zipped it up, and took a deep breath. ‘Guv...Jackie Steel reporting for duty. Who is this snout, and where do I find him?’‘Try any of the traditional pubs alongside Bristol docks. Ask for Clipper.’Ask for Clipper. That easy, huh?The asking was easy, but finding the snout was not. After she had touched base with Helga – no new admittances – and with Helga’s promise to chase up Carol’s AIDS test result - Angers dropped her back at her apartment. She checked on Carol – who was quietly listening to music – had a shower and changed into a new tracksuit.She ran down to the station and caught the train to Temple Meads, and then jogged across to the docks. A few local shirkers appeared friendly enough, but were hardly forthcoming when she mentioned Clipper’s name. Any that talked shrugged, and it was “try somewhere else”, as if they were hoping to see the back of her. The Black Swan cropped up more than once, so she paid it a repeat visit, and finally got lucky.The yokel in blue dungarees, who was sitting on the bench outside, was having a fag break. He pointed to the back in response to her question. ‘Brown coat with fur collar ... taking a leak.’There was a side entrance to the pub back terrace, barred by a gate. It was unlocked. She nodded to the yokel and walked down the cobbled path to the toilets. All mod cons, it wasn’t; a rudimentary brick shithouse with paint flaking off the walls and scoured with graffiti. She didn’t go inside; waited outside and listened to a dripping tap, and then the sound of someone cursing before the brown coat with the fur collar appeared. The snout – his long nose resembled one - inside the coat noticed her; dismissed her as no threat. ‘Watch it darling. Bloody flush’s leaking like buggery ... again.’‘I’m not your darling, Clipper.’ Quiet, non-threatening; business-like tone of voice.He still jumped as though a red-hot poker had been thrust up his arse. His eyes narrowed. ‘How ... who ...?’He stopped when Jackie showed him her wad of notes. ‘I’m asking the questions...’He grinned, although it looked more like a leer, and then sniffed. ‘You smell like a cop.’Maybe that’s why the local shirkers had shied away: too damn obvious. She put the notes back in her pocket and took a calculated risk. ‘If you’re not interested...’He interrupted. ‘I didn’t say that, I’m establishing the facts.’‘The facts are ... Clipper ... I give you cash for information ... that’s all you need to know.’He glanced over her shoulder. ‘It’s too public here. I’ll see if the upstairs room is free. We can use that ... no interruptions.’The landlord was happy to oblige. He unlocked the door to the upstairs room and winked at her. ‘Just give me a shout when you want refills.’The word “when” was emphasised. A private room for the cost of a few drinks. Jackie wasn’t driving, and she reckoned a few more would loosen Clipper’s tongue. In his company, she was going to match him pint for pint – maybe also shorts if it came to it.They made their way to a table that overlooked the street below. Jackie took a large draught of her pint while they appraised each other. He broke the silence.‘What sort of information you looking for?’‘The dirt on Marty Hemming and Andy Hillock ... anything that’s brushed off.’He took a gulp of his pint. ‘I’ve heard a few things.’ It sounded non-committal – Clipper was being cagey.Jackie eased herself in. ‘What things?’Clipper glanced out of the window; seemed satisfied, turned back. ‘You on your own?’She nodded. ‘This is strictly off the record.’Clipper seemed to accept her answer – more fool him. He went straight into ATM mode. ‘Cash first.’She breathed a sigh of relief and peeled off twenty quid. ‘Get the beers in. If I like what I hear, I’ll stay around.’With a couple of fresh pints on the table, his taster was to assert that Marty wanted to know a few things – Clipper kept saying “things” – about Hillock. Like, money owed, favours called in, and messages. ‘If you want details...’Jackie slapped another twenty on the table. ‘That’s it. Don’t piss me about.’Clipper picked up his pint. ‘Cheers.’Arrogant slime ball.By Jackie’s third pint - and his fifth, according to him – Clipper’s tongue was well and truly lubricated. He told her plenty; more than enough to warrant an internal investigation into Hillock’s association with the Creek brothers. The interlude came to a premature end. Clipper noticed something in the street below. Something he didn’t like; his face turned white, and he was out of the room in a flash, slamming the door behind him.She peered into the gloom; it was getting dark and the street lamps were lighting up. A man in a black coat – he looked like an undertaker – was staring up at her. A chill crept around her neck; she shuddered.She finished her pint, stood up, moved over to the door, and opened it.The undertaker stood there...

Paul – and Reilly’s – official line was approved. It was a desk job, initially. Their investigation into the violent assault on the transsexual, Sam, and the examination of the security tapes was a legitimate line of enquiry, and it gave Reilly plenty of leeway to manufacture copies of the juiciest bits with impunity at his workstation.The attacker could be linked to Operation Venus; which was taking on nightmare proportions, as if new tentacles were growing everywhere. The “hand in the woods” murders were the latest to be added; DNA evidence just in had identified that these and the Venus killings were carried out by the same perpetrator.From the Chief Constable down through the ranks; the implications were horrific. The killer had struck against two members of the public; not prostitutes, just an “ordinary” couple going about their business. At the operational meeting that morning, the CC announced that he would be holding a news conference later that day. Paul could imagine the Argus headlines.No one is safe.Paul concentrated on the tapes; scenes of debauchery, there was plenty of that. But the initial excitement soon became sleazy and tedious - mooning at the cameras seemed to be a great laugh - and he focused on the previous night’s tapes. On one, he caught sight of Sam walking past the “Vatican” on her own – she was heading uphill towards the multi story car park – but she quickly moved out of camera range. He carried on watching for a while; there were at least half a dozen men who could have been her attacker.What had she said? He had scarpered when a gang of yobs approached. Paul rewound the tape to when he first saw her, and started again. He reckoned the yobs would be heading for the “Vatican” – trying to gate crash, or just cause trouble by hassling partygoers; maybe even hoping to get a leg-over.He spotted a gang of four swaggering downhill. They seemed to be hurling abuse at someone behind them. Their blurred faces came into view. He froze the frame; no one he recognised, but their “uniforms” were a dead give-away. The Seagulls from Harmony Estate: sporting designer gear, courtesy of illegal earnings from pushing drugs. He looked at the respective time frames. Sam going out of range at 11:47: gulls coming into view at 12:32. He rewound the tape back and watched it again. This time, he eliminated the “possibles” to two men. One wore a suit and kept glancing at his watch as he hurried up the hill.Unlikely.The other man seemed to be middle-aged, swarthy build, respectable clothes, and not appearing to be in any rush. Paul could only see the back view; he tried to get a good picture, but the man never turned to face the camera. Had the man been inside the club? Paul switched tapes and ran them through. In the specific time frame, one tape had been overwritten; a couple of others featured clubbers mooning at the cameras. Futile; the man wasn’t captured on tape.Maybe the Trannie would recognise him - although he wasn’t holding out a lot of hope. It had happened too quickly, it was dark for Christ’s sake. She only saw his black pupils boring into her brain; couldn’t remember if he was tall or short, fat or thin - how could she when the fucker had half-blinded her with his fists? No chance of DNA identification; stupid bitch had shoved her soiled clothes in the washer and had taken a bath before coming in to the nick to complain.He’d also have to show the scene to Jackie – good opportunity to make it up with her. He gave Reilly the tape and told him what he needed – pronto.Boyson?He located the file on Jackie’s desk. Neglected. He had been so wrapped-up in the “hand in the woods” slayings he hadn’t pursued the lead. With confirmation of the DNA evidence, Boyson became his immediate priority. To stay in Forsyth’s best books all other investigations, including his undercover enquiry into the two “Aitches”, would have to be put on the back burner.His breakthrough came one hour later, after he had sifted through the overflowing in-tray on Jackie’s desk. At the bottom of the pile he found one scrawled message from the front desk: Leyhill had belatedly provided details on Boyson’s probation officer, a Mr. Williams, living a few miles outside Bridleton. Paul immediately sought out Hillock, but the DCI wasn’t in his office; out on an all-day enquiry, according to his calendar.DCS Forsyth gave the all-clear. ‘Keep it low key. Boyson is only a possible ... but this attack on the woman is a lead we need to eliminate. Go and talk to this Mr. Williams, see what you can learn.’After several phone calls and an abortive trip to the house address, Paul eventually tracked down the elusive Mr. Williams at the Job Centre in the centre of town. He was working alternate days helping young offenders to seek placements – mostly as volunteers in Charity shops. He seemed an approachable person; early thirties with a pony-tail and glasses.They sat down in an interview room, and Paul explained why he was there: investigating an attack. ‘Mr. Williams. We’re trying to track a Daniel Boyson ... do you know him?’The reply was immediate. ‘Call me Ray ... everyone does ... Boyson ... it’s been a long time since I heard that name.’Paul waited.Ray took the cue. ‘Daniel ... how shall I put it ... had difficulties. But he pulled himself together at Leyhill. He had quite a talent for printing.’‘Difficulties?’Ray smiled. ‘Daniel was sent down for raping two women. He had charm and dressed well but he blamed them for leading him on, and that attitude never changed. But when he got out, I helped him set up a job as a self-employed printer.’‘Do you know where he lives?’Ray shook his head. ‘Sorry ... but I know where his garage is ... that’s where he kept his equipment.’Paul looked at him. ‘Could you show me...?’Ray stood up. ‘Give me ten minutes to clear up, and I’ll be with you.’While he waited, Paul stretched, and peered through the glass. Outside, there was an assortment of people reading the various job vacancies’ boards. Some seemed in high spirits, others had miserable faces: expectations raised, expectations dashed. Ray was gesticulating to a punk with pink hair, and pointing to the Mickey-Mouse wall clock; probably re-arranging an appointment.Someone peered in at him; a woman carrying a clipboard with a young girl in tow. She gestured to see if he was staying put or leaving. He waved them in, got up and opened the door.‘All yours.’He wandered over to a notice board. Christmas closing times were prominent: nearly two weeks off; he’d be lucky to get two days off. Not that he fancied spending it with his mother and Daisy – he really ought to get his finger out and contact Jackie...‘Okay, I’m ready.’ Ray clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Car’s out the back.’ He led the way through the alley by the side of the Job Centre to a small staff car park behind and unlocked a black Mini that needed a clean.Paul hauled himself inside. ‘My car’s at the multi story. Drop me there, I’ll follow.’The garage - one of several in a row - was behind a block of flats near an industrial estate. A letting agent’s sign - Surelet - indicated that two lock-ups were available for rent. Ray pointed to the one on the end. ‘That’s it.’It was shut. Paul tried turning the handle. Locked, it wouldn’t budge.‘What the fuck you doing?’Paul turned to see a stocky man wearing greasy overalls. Worse, he was carrying a cosh.Boyson?

He watched the woman jogger stroll past. A glimpse of recognition was lost, his mind was on Tania. She was approaching with Caesar; he made a note of the time. Plan B would be here on the towpath under the bridge, and out of sight; not so enjoyable, but he couldn’t risk being frustrated again. He had been pumped up, ready to go, and then Tania had spoilt it – the Sunday night man should have been him. After his disappointment, the foul-mouthed slag outside the “Vatican” had been a mistake. A mistake he shouldn’t have made. He had to get out fast when he heard the yobs approach...Tania was talking to the woman. It didn’t seem a friendly encounter; Tania tugged at Caesar’s lead with an angry expression, and the woman jogged off.Blond hair tied in a ponytail. Where had he seen her before?A few minutes later, Caesar came sniffing around his stool; he ignored the beast.‘Caught anything yet?’ Tania’s voice, although a little breathless, was intriguing; professionally staged to solicit a reply.He just shook his head, shrugged and stretched his arms. He didn’t want to talk to her; he didn’t want to smell her; he didn’t want to touch. Not then...She didn’t pursue it; called the dog, and they both trotted off. The morning sun was pleasant; he felt warm inside his waterproofs. He sat back and reeled in the line. Put another maggot on the hook and cast it out towards the swans. They’d be inquisitive. If he got really lucky...Plenty of time.

The burial site in western Tanzania was not on next season’s camping list — hot, yes, but not the stench of rotting flesh outside my tent, nor in the middle of a tribal war. I wiped sweat from my face and swatted away a swarm of red-eyed flies eagerly awaiting another feast. I leant on my spade, took a guilty swig from my water pouch, and looked back at the refugee village. The gate opened and a laden truck wound its way along the pitted track towards me.‘Rush Hour,’ I thought. ‘Too many to count.’ Two months ago the last well had dried-up; now I was dependant on tanked-in water from Arusha. But so were the rebels. It was their stronghold, and several of our tank-loads had been highjacked and the guards killed. I wondered why I remained – Doctor Ineffective — now a forced labourer since my medical supplies had been ransacked and stolen. All I could do was to shovel sulphur from my diminishing pile into trenches, in a vain attempt to sanitise the burial operation. The 6-15 arrived ten minutes later than schedule, and my gang was waiting to accompany the passengers to depart in an orderly fashion. Into the trenches went the arrivals, neatly lined-up and covered in dirt. Sweat, toil, and tears when relatives were recognised and peacefully buried. But not all. A commotion arose and I strode over to confront a group of angry men surrounding the body of a lady dressed in ceremonial clothes. Around her neck was a string of pearls — a priceless ticket to Freedom. Desecration or not, the prize was coveted by any one of these desperate natives. Wild-staring eyes followed my actions as I drew my bowie knife and cut the cord. Angry murmurs as I unthread each pearl into my hand, and curses when I threw them all into the cess-pit – now three metres deep. ‘It’s water we need for all, not stones for one man.’ I wasted my breath, they would not understand. I turned away, only to feel a knife thrust deep into my back. I fell to my knees, and as red mist turned to black, I realised my season ticket had expired.

It would have to be Orson. Jackie phoned the Medical Clinic; found out he had been discharged and told to rest at home.She looked at herself in the mirror; not a pretty sight, despite being flattered by Brains. Carol was still asleep, she had appeared withdrawn the last few days; clearly the enormity of her actions was weighing on her mind. Jackie could only offer tea and sympathy, and a shoulder to lean on...Outside her apartment the weather was brightening up; although it still looked cold, a hazy sunshine was making inroads into the snow and ice. In places the street was dry and...No more excuses. On with the blue tracksuit and a long nine mile run to Orson’s house; if he was up and about she’d sponge a lift back – or catch a bus. Part of the way she could run by the canal towpath; it would cut the distance by about a mile, and no traffic fumes would invade her lungs.By the time she reached the towpath she was knackered; wheezing away like an asthmatic pensioner. She slowed to a gentle jog, then a brisk walk, and then a slow walk. One optimistic fisherman wrapped from head to toe in oilskins, sat on the bank engrossed in a book. He - she presumed he was a man - was being observed by a bevy of swans: two graceful adults and three fluffy cygnets; they were possibly hoping he’d throw them a few pieces of bread.Idyllic and peaceful setting, but close to the motorway; Orson had chosen his home well. Jackie strolled by while soaking up the sunshine. She could see the back of Stonehouse Court hotel across the canal; in the grounds, preparations were being made for a seasonal party; a large marquee with a stage adorned with banners and balloons. She heard a dog whine and turned her gaze back to the towpath. A Pitbull was trotting along; attached to its lead was a woman...‘Hello Jackie. Long way from home?’Tania Simpson smiled but Jackie didn’t. The dog was sniffing at her ankles – smelly brute. She moved aside, started jogging on the spot. ‘Toning up.’Tania didn’t take the hint. ‘Darling, you look tired. I heard you burnt-out ... too much stress...’A week ago, Jackie would have blown up, but not that day, despite the provocation. ‘Actually, Tania, I thrive on stress ... just taking a well-earned break.’Tania dug the knife in and twisted. ‘Is that what your shrink says?’Bitch.Jackie felt on top form. And ready to invent an illness. ‘It’s a hormonal imbalance ... you should know ... coming up to your menopause.’Up yours.Tania sniffed as though there was a bad smell. She pulled the dog’s lead and brushed past. ‘Come on Caesar, back home.’Jackie was impressed. Fair play, Tania hadn’t fallen into the trap of saying she wasn’t that old, which could have opened up a whole bag of worms. First the disbelieving raise of eyebrows followed by vindictive comments about her leathery skin and bleached hair.Next time, maybe.She took more interest in her surroundings, trying to picture where Tania might live. It wouldn’t be far away; Tania wasn’t the outdoor type; more at home in smoke-ridden bars. The nearest settlement was a select cul-de-sac. She’d noticed a Land Rover parked outside one of the cottages – it could have been hers.Jackie moved on. Another half-mile took her into a small estate; Orson’s house was a four bedroom detached; his Astra was on the drive. She rang the door-bell. He was at home; seemed surprised to see her, but invited her inside, led the way into a kitchen diner as big as the police canteen, and offered a drink.‘Toilet first, if I may. Water’s fine. I’m on a detox.’He snorted back a laugh and pointed to the hall bathroom. When she came back out he had poured out a glass. He moved across to the fridge and extracted a can of Heineken. He had a guilty look on his face. ‘Don’t expect me to join you. I’ve got plenty of catching up to do.’‘Bit early for that?’He glanced up at the wall clock. ‘Just gone ten. Nearly lunch time ... I’m starving.’Jackie stifled a smile. ‘What about your medication?’He sniffed; pulled off the ring cap and took a slug. ‘Don’t believe a word of it. Carstairs has to justify his fees somehow. Anyway, I’m feeling great ... went to cheer up Marty the other day.’She took a deep breath. ‘I know.’He didn’t seem as surprised as he could have been. It only took him a few seconds to make the connection. ‘You’ve talked to your shrink?’She nodded. Maybe Orson wasn’t in the best physical shape but his mental faculties were sharp. ‘Brains told me he also paid you a visit.’Orson put down his can, and rubbed his stubble. ‘Did he now?’ He waved her to a seat at the dining table. ‘Perhaps it’s time you put your cards on the table.’She shook her head. ‘Quid quo pro, guv? We both show our hands, okay?’Jackie watched as he fought to suppress his emotions. A red patch began to form on his neck, but it dissipated while he strove to find the right words. ‘I’ve had plenty of time to think while I’ve been in hospital. Sophie, of course ... my life, my career ... but I’m clear on one thing. I joined the force to stamp out crime ... including ones of our own making.’‘Marty, you mean?’He nodded. ‘Marty, for one … maybe also Hillock.’She felt it was time to spill the beans. ‘Guv … you know I had been monitoring the AIDS aspect … well Heidi let on that some new hospital patients were infected. One of those was Councillor Winterbotham. I went to see him before all this happened ... he was in a bad way ... you know, really sick.’Orson was gazing at her. ‘Go on, I’m listening.’She took a gulp of water and explained the cover up; Winterbotham’s fictitious alibi, Hillock backing off – Marty having something on both of them that they didn’t want to come to light. In Winterbotham’s case it was a compromising video tape. ‘But I don’t know what hold Marty’s got over Hillock.’Orson tapped his nose. ‘Well I do. Marty upset some sleazy scumbags ... allegedly, Hillock is in their pockets ... some favours were called in ... and Marty is sure the message came from Hillock. Hands off ... or else.’Cards on the table - no answers, only more questions. Jackie sipped her water.Orson thought for a long time. ‘I’m hungry. And I know where to eat. Cheltenham hospital; come-on ... you can drive. We’ll see if Dixon will make a statement.’‘I’m off the case, guv.’He beamed. ‘Social visit, Miss Marple.’

Author

Bio: British age 74 (young) retired and living in Thailand. Profession, Charity Auditor working in some 40 countries over the last ten years before retiring. Familiar with writing reports to professional standard. Sense of humour, reserved, realist and down to earth. Enjoy writing with a passion for the unusual.Genre: Fiction crime Email: stephenterry747@hotmail.comPhone: 0066823250835 Thailand